Tranquility
by ruth baulding
Summary: Focus, young padawan! Focus. - in scenes suitable for even the shortest attention span-
1. Chapter 1

**Tranquility**

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Scene 1

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A tiny leaf – dark-veined, still supple and verdant with youth- floats upon the surface of bottomless effulgence, its delicately curled form all but weightless, perfectly buoyed by the infinity upon which it rests. The waters cradle it, a majestic current so broad and deep that it cannot properly be _felt _ carries it subtly, incontrovertibly, toward the cresting horizon of an immense outlet, the merging of river into sea, self into totality. This leaf is still far from that luminous shore, however; for now, it spins softly upon the spot, passive, relaxed, its face turned upward to a mottled heaven, a variegated paradise reflected in limpid colors, deeper than deep, within the water's bosom. The leaf merely _is,_ motionless in itself, passionless, without thought or need, without….

Well, mostly without need….

The tiny leaf surreptitiously scratches its right knee, digging fingers into the crease of cream linen bunching above its nerhide boot, and then sighs in relief, returning to its effortless suspension upon the Force's broad stream. A minute ripple spreads from its center, barely ruffling the placidity of the waters, a silent march of concentric rings, widening circles passing gracefully from center to periphery, opening like perfect round eyes or deepest inhalation – until they brush against a second leaf.

This leaf is mottled dusky red and gold, its veins wide and knotted, its surface a hoary, thick-woven net of accrued years and wisdom. It floats upon the same endless radiance- unmoving, perfectly serene – until the barest disturbance bumps gently against its borders, rocking it slightly, setting it into a lazy counterclockwise spin.

The second leaf opens its eyes and releases a very short breath of exasperation, a textured breeze _just_ strong enough to lift the tender young leaf from its place, flip it over in midair, and settle it upon the unyielding shore of a thick meditation cushion, in a dim chamber at the Jedi Temple's sheltered heart.

"Padawan."

Blinking off the vestiges of a deep centering trance, the young leaf squints in the relative gloom of his surroundings. "I'm sorry, Master…. How long was that?" he adds, hopefully.

The tall Jedi master sitting meditation lotus opposite him raises both brows and purses his lips. "Scarcely ten minutes," he replies.

Obi-Wan scratches at his knee again. There is a small scab there, under the cloth, and it is itching like the blazes. "Oh." This is much, much more difficult than any of the exercises he was taught in the crèche or the clan dormitories. He can feel frustration rippling out from his center now, in widening circles of distress. He is far from _tranquil._

Qui-Gon Jinn does not say anything more, for the moment – neither to encourage nor to blame. His student catches himself reaching for the burning point of _need_ again, and stops himself, firmly twisting the fingers of both hands into a clasped knot and stowing it securely in his lap. He swallows and waits for his teacher to speak.

"Let us try a different anchor," the Jedi master suggests, after long consideration. "Ready?"

If sheer determination counts as readiness, then he certainly is. "Yes, Master."

A terse nod. "Good. Empty your mind…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 2**

A pair of winged thranctill hang suspended between mirrored geometries. Below: a curved plain of valleys and canyons, pinnacles and turrets, the sculpted glass stalagmites of Coruscant's limitless city, scored and etched in tiered magnificence, rimmed with glowing fire where afternoon light meets the far horizon, where incense columns of industrial smoke rise like veils to obscure the land beyond. Above: the abstract perfection of space, adorned with glittering stars, every pinpoint strung upon an invisible trellis , counterweighted into a vast, slowly spiraling mobile sculpture, forever turning, turning with the galaxy's stately procession.

Between, they lie nestled in endless wind, the smaller tucked beneath the sheltering form of the larger, upheld upon outstretched pinions, wingtips ruffled by a supernal breeze. The Wind moves through them: not only supporting but surrounding, penetrating their beings, binding them effortlessly to all else – to the city, to the stars, to the Wind itself.

It would be easy to plunge into an inebriated bliss, here, above and within all things, soaring without motion upon the Force. The fledgling extends its wings and is _lifted,_ but not too far: its elder buffers this rash ascent with its own body.

_Easy, young one. Remember the myth of Ikkaru and the sun._

An ancient tale, common to many cultures, with variations peculiar to each. The Vetruvians, for example, have the hubristic youth fly not too close to their planet's star but to a volcano's mephitic rim – and also, in their rendition, it is not Daedallu the boy's father but an alluring female _djinn_ who invents the wings and warns the brash hero against the perils of reckless joy. But the object lesson is the same, and the eventual result - though Vetruvian literary tradition is difficult to understand, especially when those who might illumine its intricacies are wont to rebut any request for information with a polite deferment until one is "a bit older."

It makes one wonder _precisely what_ that djinn and her feathers might symbolize. Adult reticence on the topic fans curiosity to the intensity of a volcano's simmering heat…

And of course this causes Ikkaru – or his avatar – to plummet helplessly into the outward and ordinary, the trance melting like wax beneath a punishing sun.

Obi-Wan bites his lower lip, fretfully, for Qui-Gon's blue gaze is uncomfortably like the hot afternoon sky of their shared vision – all-encompassing, penetrating, and a little distant.

"I'm sorry, Master," he peeps. He truly is. Not least of all because midday meal has been postponed until he can achieve the desired result – a sustained centering meditation lasting a full quarter hour, _at the minimum._

The tall man exhales slowly, that piercing gaze relenting at last and travelling slowly up to the small chamber's domed ceiling. "Your mind wanders like quicksilver, padawan mine."

Focus is so very, very difficult. At least this sort. The young Jedi shifts in place, mortified heat rising inexorably into his face.

"The failing is mine," his mentor gently assures him. "Perhaps a different venue is in order. Come along."

"Yes, master." They quit the solemn premises and descend, one trotting obediently after the other, to the Temple's foundation level, where the wide doors of an indoor arboretum beckon visitors into a sanctuary grotto. Qui-Gon knows every path by heart; likely he could tread these narrow trails blindfolded, and falter not a single step.

Inward, and inward again they spiral, to a place where water flows like chimes and drooping yarbanna fronds reverently kiss the fragrant, dew-laden ground. "Here," the Jedi master decides. "We will start again."


	3. Chapter 3

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 3**

Shafting light transubstantiates appearance into meaning, symbol into hidden truth. Dust motes flutter hypnotically upon the striating columns of gold, settling upon leaf and stem, swirling delicately in mid-air. Warm radiance spills onto the Jedi master's quiet form, picking out silver threads in his long mane, glinting on worn patches and a tiny torn seam in his cloak's hem. Eyes closed, hands open and relaxed upon his knees, he presents the picture of perfect tranquility – the Jedi ideal.

His young padawan suppresses a bright pang of _envy._ He will _never_ be a Jedi like Qui-Gon… _never_ achieve such effortless communion with the Force.

His stomach chooses this moment to growl insistently, and he blushes.

"Relax," the tall man advises, without opening his eyes.

Yes. Relax. Obi-Wan breaths in, out. A ten count, then a twenty. Thirty. Eyes closed. Reach out – not with the senses, not with thought, nor the conscious self… light filters inward, breaching invisible barriers, uniting world and self. Better…. Almost there….

A soft mental nudge, as though a broad hand has tipped him over the precipice of some luminous abyss; he falls upward with the rising steam, the ascending columns of light, _expanding_ to the very buttresses overhead, _rooted_ firmly in the soil beneath his crossed legs.

A seedling slowly unfurls in the shadow of a mighty _sequoo,_ in the midst of a primordial forest. He is a newcomer to this grove, the last generation to push tentatively out of the earth's womb, up into nourishing light. His forbears rise in silent colonnades about him, a cathedral fretted with fire where swaying branches span the distant sky. His very nature is _stillness,_ the slow ache of vegetable growth, inhalation without _cease, _ the very light an undying repast, a libation poured through his very body, soaked into his blood without mediation. A deep tone resonates up from the deep places beneath him, where he is anchored, bound to the stretching roots of his ancestors, sustained and protected by them, fed by the same bounty.

The fragile young tree's stomach growls again, pleading for _real_ food – hot and toothsome, savory and very very abundant –

"Padawan."

The great _sequoo _ speaks, in a mellow but authoritative tone. Its sapling bends in the gusting breeze of its rebuke, and digs into the earth, fidgeting as though to ground himself in that sure foundation –

"Obi-Wan."

Felled with one startling _chop,_ he nearly topples over on his side. Only Jedi reflexes save him. "I – Master?" His belly is twisting with hunger. It is far past midday and he ate lightly at firstmeal. His growing body demands sustenance, heedless of consequence.

"I'm sorry, Master. I… will do better." With a spurt of vexation, he notes that his clean trousers are now soiled and stained by the damp soil beneath his knees. Now he is not only famished, he is _filthy - _ and frustrated. And worst of all, Qui-Gon is laughing at him. Not aloud, of course – but the tall man's grey eyes are crinkling at the corners, betraying secret mirth.

"I rescind my previous injunction," the Jedi master declares. "We will eat."

Relief floods through his hapless protégé. There is hope after all; he might survive this day's training. "Yes, Master." The words tumble out with a trifle more enthusiasm than is consonant with Jedi dignity, and he hastens to stand up, tucking hands into opposite sleeves, lifting his chin bravely.

His teacher smiles, amusement scudding over his face like clouds over clear water, and tweaks his infantile padawan braid. "Don't fret. We will find a way."


	4. Chapter 4

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 4**

Never has there been a meal consumed with such unabashed gratitude within the refectory's bright walls. Even the serving droids – jaded by centuries of service – observe the proceedings with wide optic plates.

When Obi-Wan has wolfed down his third and final helping of chabblatz bean and _orchu_ stew - accompanied by five-grain bread - and washed the whole thing down with a staggering volume of blue milk, he slumps back in his chair, primly setting his utensils upon his empty dish.

Qui-Gon eats half as much, and finishes with tea, as is his custom. "How was Galactic Civics class this morning?" he inquires, pouring with care.

His padawan's spirits lift, instantaneously. "Absolute mayhem, Master," the boy smirks. "We debated the relative merits of the Chandrilan matriarchal system versus the Fathers' Council of the Lesser Uuooquad."

The Jedi master raises the shallow bowl, testing its bitter aroma. "A formula for internecine strife, I can well imagine. I dare not ask which side you championed."

The young Jedi warms to his subject, dimples peeking out from hiding. "Well," he admits, "I was initially inclined to support the Chandrilan viewpoint. Objectively speaking, their constitution is far superior to the tribal precedent system of the Uuooq'o. But Initiate Tachi was so vehemently committed to the matriarchal cause already, I felt I should play devil's advocate. For the sake of scholarly balance."

"Hmm." The tall man is not hoodwinked by this assertion. "I'm sure she – and Master Neeb – appreciated your selfless devotion to knowledge."

An impish grin confirms his suspicions that the _debate_ had been impassioned and lively, a spark whipped into tempestuous flame by his pupil's combative wit. "The discussion was _inspiring, _Master."

Qui-Gon's brows rise, inquisitively. "I am curious to hear your position." He discreetly checks his commlink and composes himself to listen.

Obi-Wan is more than happy to favor his willing audience with an encore performance. Hands gesturing elegantly, open face radiating disingenuous enthusiasm, voice trained – by some innate instinct - to a perfect rhetorician's pitch, musical and enchanting despite the fact that it still teeters on the brink of a pubescent drop, the boy outlines his argument, elaborating fearlessly and freely as he delivers his extemporaneous speech. It is clear he invents half of it as he goes, wandering at will among the avenues of his impressive memory for fact and his burgeoning insight into structures and patterns, the universal and the particular. There is a pleasure _thrumming_ in his Force signature – more than the childish enjoyment of hearing himself speak, as a few jealous contemporaries have accused him. There is a delight, an abandon, a kind of motion-in-stillness as he explores the subject in much the same manner Qui-Gon might wander in awe through a virgin wilderness.

They are very different in temperament, he and this boy. It makes teaching a _challenge._ But a worthwhile one.

When the padawan pauses to catch his breath, the tall man holds up a hand. He consults the chronometer again. "You've been talking for forty eight minutes, young one." His tea dregs are cold, and he is almost halfway convinced that that Uooq'o chauvinism is somehow justifiable, from some convoluted point of view."I think perhaps you should present your _ case _ to Master Tahl later this evening."

Obi-Wan blanches. "No, Master… with your permission. It's only a hypothetical argument… I don't-"

"Fear not. We've other business to attend." The servitor droid hovers near, collecting their trays. "Time to return to the exercise."

"Yes, Master."

It is not a lack of _focus,_ or of stamina, that constitutes the obstacle to their success. It is a question of channeling prodigious energy in the right direction. Qui-Gon decides to change tactics again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 5**

"Here, Padawan. Hold this."

The Archives stacks tower above them, to either side, a double honor guard of gleaming tomes, a millenium's softly flickering wisdom, bank upon bank of votive lights keeping vigil along the hushed corridor. The atmosphere is _solemn,_ hushed, all verticality and artifice, an exact counterpoint to the arboretum's teeming life. This is a realm of mind, of spirit, of the Unifying.

"What is it?" Obi-Wan asks, bemused. The orb he clasps between his hands is neither holo-volume nor holocron. Heavy, smooth, its surface translucent, it is something he has not seen before.

"A simple meditative anchor," Qui-Gon explains. "Turn it, and the inscription will appear."

Carefully, the young Jedi rotates the sphere, fingers gently manipulating the flawless shape. As it turns, words appear in its depths, fading to be replaced by others only when the ball is kept turning. The bauble – for it is little more, in truth, a simple holo-crystal with an embedded motion trigger- brings a childlike pleasure, evoking a tiny smile from the initially hesitant apprentice. "Oh," he breathes. "It's a sutra."

"Yes. I think, perhaps, this will prove a better aid to focus than those we have already tried." They find a sequestered alcove on the east side, and settle in to meditate, sitting knee-to-knee upon its parquet floor

Ephemeral signs blossom and fade within the orb's depths, a perpetually unfolding discourse. Obi-Wan softly _reads_ the ancient lines of the sutra, over and over again as they repeat themselves, caressing each syllable even as his hands gently turns the heavy sphere. They are words chosen with care, passed down generation to generation, polished like river stones tumbled along a meandering course, smoothed and luminous with use, their meanings ballasted by centuries' worth of contemplation. Gradually, reading becomes reciting, and recitation melts into a kind of song, a barely voiced whisper tracing the contours of ossified insight. At last, even this faintest sound halts, and the boy is left holding the translucent ball in both hands, eyes closed, presence utterly _serene._

For a minute.

Two minutes.

A soft furrow appears between the padawan's brows.

Three minutes.

Qui-Gon braces himself.

"Master." The delicate bubble of tranquility _pops,_ buffeted by a cold wind of critical thought. "Are you _quite_ sure this is entirely orthodox in its outlook? There are several –"

The tall man snorts, and peremptorily levitates the gleaming orb in to his own broad hand. "Never mind." He stands, knees cracking. Perhaps _words_ are not the key, after all. "We're moving on."


	6. Chapter 6

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 6**

They move on, all the way back to their shared quarters in the fourteenth-level east-facing residence wing.

Qui-Gon does not slacken his habitual pace, as he has been of late, to accommodate his student's much shorter stride. It will do the boy some good to stretch his limbs, even to _trot_ down the Temple's hushed concourses. The steady pat-pat-pat of supple boots upon inlaid marble floors echoes reassuringly behind the tall man as they wend their way home. He hasn't entirely lost his padawan's confidence yet, nor has the young Jedi lapsed into morose self-recrimination, as he is wont to do.

They will surmount this obstacle before either of those things happen. It is simply a matter of… rephrasing the problem.

The apartment is faintly redolent of incense, the lingering echo of their first attempt to master this skill, in the morning's early hours. Qui-Gon opens the balcony doors with a wave of his hand and grants his apprentice permission to change his trousers, which- _stars forbid-_ are dirty about the knees.

The small indulgence affords him a few more minutes in which to make preparations.

When Obi-Wan reappears, immaculately clad and simmering with a contained curiosity, the Jedi master gestures him over to the low table occupying the common room's center. Here, a wide variety of common objects are laid out upon the scarred and worn halsa-wood surface: a cracked tea bowl filled with water, a rock, a leaf, a comb, a commlink, a sheet of flimsi, a soft pile of potting soil, a container of boot polish, a stray twist of cobweb, a ration pellet, a single long hair plucked from Qui-Gon's luxuriant mane.

"Is this a crèche game?" the padawan inquires, suspiciously. He kneels obediently in place, eyes searching the tall man's craggy face for answers.

"In some ways. Your task is to grasp each of these things in turn."

Obi-Wan remains motionless, waiting for further explication. None is proferred.

His brows come together. "That… is all?" he clarifies.

His teacher extends one hand in invitation. "Do not underestimate the difficulty of small undertakings… such as maintaining focus for a quarter hour."

The mild reprimand brings a spot of color to the young Jedi's cheeks. "Yes, Master," he mumbles, and sets meekly about the proposed exercise. He lifts one object after another, handling the cobweb and the hair with extreme care, scooping the grains of soil up between curled fingers, then setting each successive element down again, precisely where he found it. Another quirk of the brows, and he is gazing up into Qui-Gon's face again, expression almost pained.

The Jedi master cannot entirely suppress his burgeoning smile. "You overlooked something."

Obi-Wan's blue gaze scours over the tabletop, seeking perhaps some dust mote or microscopic oddity which he has missed… but he comes up blank and now appears positively stymied. "I'm sorry, Master, I don't…"

"The water." Manipulating the Force with masterful finesse, Qui-Gon cajoles the water from its resting place, suspending it a few centimeters above the bowl's rim, in a shimmering sphere.

His student blinks, manifesty impressed by the display of subtle acumen.

"Take it," the tall man urges.

Tentative, the padawan extends one hand and brushed fingers against the hovering orb's surface; the surface tension breaks, sending droplets spattering into the bowl. Obi-Wan scowls, gently closes his hand about the wavering form, and grasps –

Water sloshes over the table, tiny rivulets rolling off its edges.

"Blast."

Chuckling, Qui-Gon gathers the fallen water again, summoning it back into a glossy puddle, then levitating it again, another perfect sphere floating in mid-air, held in flawless equilibrium a half-meter above the table. Obi-Wan goggles, eyes round with admiration.

"Some things," the Jedi master tells him, "Cannot be _grasped._ Water, among them."

"Yes, Master."

"Hold out your hands."

Bemused, the young Jedi cups both hands beneath the softly undulating orb. The water falls, pooling between his fingers. A little spills over the rim of his makeshift bowl, but a clear meniscus remains, tremblingly contained within the fragile dam.

Qui-Gon nods in approval. "Drink."

His student slurps down the cool libation, then fastidiously dries his hands upon his tunic's hem.

"The Force likewise cannot be grasped; focus in meditation is akin to holding water – you must keep your mind _still_ and _open,_ ready to be filled."

Obi-Wan absorbs this with characteristic sobriety, forehead rumpled in concentration. "Yes, Master."

And now they are ready to move on, yet again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 7**

A pure flame burns about its own wick, self-immolating without beginning or end, standing straight and true, yearning ever upward to limitless heaven. Center within center, heart within heart: gold, white, bluest Ilum ice at the inmost cataclysmic point, where furled potential blossoms perpetually into melting heat, into a light for all the world.

Torch. Lantern. Beacon. Winged flame. The light shines in the darkness, this light kindled from that which came before, and that from another, in lineage unbroken, one to one down through the ages – a choir of silent stars, witnesses to their own legacy, consumed by that same undying luminance.

Radiant, impossibly _still, _ the eager young flame waxes with strength, fueled by the plenitude of nothing, of everything, of that which flows through, penetrates and binds all things together….

It does flicker just a _bit,_ gusting in some infinitesimal breeze, but it swiftly straightens again, the pool of limpid wax about its knees glimmering with reflected fire, the glossy gaudery of eager joy, of gross matter rendered into fit garment for luminous spirit. The wax dribbles and overflows its soft turrets, solidifying, tracing delicate webs of Fate, of destiny – each gnarled like an aged scar, sinuous and opaque, bleeding into cold and hardened regret.

The flame looks on in horror and then gutters, spins in a hot wind, blazes high with defiance, with the scrabbling desperate fury of one escaping nightmare, struggling to surface, to find the way out , to break, break away –

"_Obi-Wan."_

And just like that, the flame is snuffed. Inward collapses back into the sensory, the _real – _the less real – and a young padawan is left staring at the ghosting smoke above an expired meditation candle, a long band of silver-grey coiling forlornly in the cool recycled air.

He swallows down the scream that is poised, full-voiced, at the very summit of his throat and unclenches his fists.

Qui-GOn is watching him patiently, just across the twisting column of smoke.

"I'm sorry, Master. I .. I don't like the candle. " It has been _days _ since his last nightmare. Why must such vision persecute him now, when he has something _important _to learn? Not that his preferences, his likes and dislikes, should weight as anything in the scales of necessity. "It doesn't matter," he hastily amends, wishing his voice would not quaver so audibly. _Blast it._

The Jedi master merely clamps two fingers over the smoldering wick, effectively smothering even the rising wisps of fragrant smoke. "DO not center on your anxieties," he advises his youthful charge. A sage nod. "Including your anxiety concerning my _opinion_ of your performance."

Doubly humiliated, Obi-Wan dips his head. "Yes, Master."

The tall man leans back, hands resting upon folded knees. "It is possible for the mind to be still, even while the body is on motin," he observes. "You are a restless spirit, Obi-Wan. Perhaps we should try something different entirely. Come with me – I know just the thing."


	8. Chapter 8

**Tranquility**

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**Scene 8**

"Oh," Obi-Wan murmurs when they arrive at their destination. The small frown upon his face leaks through into his slightly crestfallen tone. "…The _Serenity Garden."_

"_Yes,"_ his teacher retorts, a repressive undercurrent in his own voice. "A fine example of meditation in movement." Thumbs hooked placidly through his belt, he surveys the scene with great satisfaction, grey eyes tracing meaning - or perhaps even beauty – where his apprentice sees only sand and rock.

Qui-Gon Jinn is a famed devotee of the Living Force, and an avid pilgrim to gardens of all kinds – free form and rigidly groomed, ornamental herbariums, working orchards, hydroponic enclosures, wild meadows. And, apparently, even _rock_ gardens, his disgruntled protégé privately observes. The man is incorrigible.

He is also, occasionally, incomprehensible. "There isn't a superfluity of _motion_ here, Master," the padawan cannot help pointing out.

"A deficit soon to be amended." The Jedi master rummages in the small storage shed conveniently located at the Serenity Garden's perimeter, and emerges triumphantly wielding a single wrought metal rake. "Here. Don't forget to remove your boots."

Releasing his pique on a long exhalation, Obi-Wan divests himself of boots and stockings, and tentatively curls his toes in the sand's edge. When the rake is pressed into his hand, he accepts the implement with a distinctly martyred air.

"Though I would move the stones first, were I you," Qui-Gon advises, happily taking up an observation post at the far end. He waves a hand, magnanimously granting permission to commence the exercise.

His padawan blinks once, then succumbs to his fate with a half-hearted show of good grace. "Yes, Master."

After ten minutes, Obi-Wan has neatly arranged the various mineral elements into symmetrical rows, and is somewhat truculently raking the sand into perfect parallel lines.

"No," the tall man decides. "Do not impose order; _feel_ their natural balance. Let the rocks tell you where to put them."

Obi-Wan's mutinous glare is fleeting, but highly expressive. Lancing bright across their fledgling bond is the distinct if unspoken assurance that the young Jedi can tell his master _exactly where_ to put said rocks. A sharply raised brow and the slightest gesture with one hand bring him up short. He sighs – noisily – and begins rearranging the offending chunks of stone in a more organic pattern.

However, at the term of a second ten minute interval, Qui-Gon is looking at not an embodiment of harmony, but a cleverly stacked tower, a precarious citadel positioned in the very center of its sandy moat. Lines are being scribed round this imposing bastion, precise circles encompassing the one center.

"Padawan."

The industrious laborer halts his raking, and looks up. Insurrection is brewing behind the polite façade. There is a tightness in his posture and a very stubborn set to his chin that betray his mounting frustration. "Yes, Master."

"Do not pretend that is where the stones _told _ you to put them."

Impertinence and black humor grapple for dominance and end up producing a kind of bastard offspring. "Well," the boy drawls, "Maybe it was a negotiated compromise."

When Qui-Gon stands, he visibly winces, alarm flaring in the Force about him. Qui-Gon lets him stew in it for along minute – such insouciance _must_ be bridled, eventually - then strides forward with no more punishing intention than that of fixing a blindfold in place.

Obi-Wan relaxes, perceiving that he has not , after all, violated the sacred boundary between jest and disrespect.

"Now, my smart-mouthed young friend, you can start again without benefit of sight – or _speech._ Remember: like holding water. Open and still. And _quiet."_

A rueful shrug expresses apology and playful acquiescence to the mock-penalty. And with these preliminary skirmishes complete, the mood shifts to one more _focused. _They are ready to begin in earnest now.

The Jedi master takes up his sentinel position again and watches the moving meditation unfold.


	9. Chapter 9

**Tranquility**

* * *

**Scene 9**

A quarter hour's span of time – unpunctuated by complaint or wry commentary – and the garden is starting to come together in exquisite balance. Three stones have been placed exactly where they should be – in a poised equilibrium of weight, shape, texture, distance, color, size; about these three delicate ripples have been drawn in the sand, a symbolic representation of the Force's uniting power, its fullness-in-emptiness, the unity and connection of the seemingly disparate.

Obi-Wan leans upon the rake, still blindfolded, and vexedly flicks sand from between the toes of his left foot, wriggling a bit. He then repeats the procedure on the right side. And then grunts in annoyance.

But he has been forbidden to speak, so that is the end of his grousing.

"Now the others," Qui-Gon urges him, squirming a little in place himself. How can it take so _long_ to place the rocks in their appointed order, when each and every one of them, the sand, the very space around them, is _crying out_ clear and clarion instruction? The very Force is alight with a kind of music which need only be transcribed into artifice, put on canvas. It is as though the padawan is dragging out the exercise on purpose, to torment his master, to test the limits of his own taskmaster's considerable patience.

But a subtle probing of the boy's aura reveals no such seditious intention. Obi-Wan is merely absorbed in what is –to him- a complex and elusive puzzle. He hesitantly levitates one of the smaller, red-hued granite chunks toward the garden's center, then appears to change his mind. It drops into the sand a meter from where it _obviously_ should be, then wobbles upward and shifts over onto its side, resting at a drunken angle, askew and poorly integrated into the energy flow of the whole.

Master or not, Qui-Gon cannot take any more.

"Here," he commands, shucking off his own boots and crossing the enclosure's width in four long strides. "Give me the rake."

His apprentice pulls off the obscuring strip of cloth and peers up at him with mingled amusement and confusion. He wordlessly hands over the tool, a smirk tugging very gently at the corners of his mouth.

Qui-Gon tweaks his tiny learner's braid and shoos him away, taking a moment ot gather himself in the present moment, in the living, breathing Force. This is so _simple. _ And then he remembers.

"Hold this, Padawan." His 'saber's hilt is pressed into the boy's outheld hands. Traditionally, neither shoes not weapons are worn inside the precinct of the Serenity Garden. The contemplator comes in poverty of spirit, and in peace. He is a pilgrim to the shrine of the Force, shedding his role as warrior-diplomat for that more fundamental one of servant and adept.

Obi-Wan retreats to the perimeter, _relief_ lightening his step, and settles in to watch a master at work, the 'saber resting reverently across his bent knees.

His mentor sinks deep into the eternal _now_ and commences his own moving meditation, perfectly focused, flawlessly in tune with the All.


	10. Chapter 10

**Tranquility**

* * *

**Scene 10**

A gong sounds in the emptiness, a single deep fundamental resonating endlessly in all directions, filling the void, shaping and defining it. Nothingness becomes _space, potential, _ and into this _openness_ a second chime note falls, a perfect chord, harmonious with the first. Tone and overtone, they sing together, this one now crossing that, intertwining, weaving, blending: and there, at the very crux of their intersection, the third – and the fourth, and the fifth. Five perfect notes, a circle of wholeness, each a part of the others, _placed_ and _known_ within the all. The five-tone overflows, then, combining and separating, the dance of its interstices a kind of melody, too: the music of the unfolding, the possible. These things are all contained within the pregnant moment, the _present,_ this here-and-now: unique, irrepeatable, blossoming from placeless center, binding the beholder into the perfection of its balance.

Qui-Gon lays aside the rake and looks upon his work, the physical embodiment of this listening. Rocks stand here, and there, poised and immovable. About them the complex tracery of sand, a flowing network, a web, a spreading ripple, the chorus of the sum totality.

The Serenity Garden reposes in the tranquility of perfection, in ever-moving harmony. A smile of utter content plays about his mouth, twinkles joyfully in his eyes. There. It is done.

He glances over his shoulder, to be sure his young pupil has also tasted of this supernal bliss, seen and felt what he has. And lo and behold: the boy _is_ still kneeling the 'saber resting across his knees, his face the picture of intense concentration, blue eyes bright and piercing beyond the veil of the sensory, into hidden depths.

The Jedi master pads gracefully across the sand and crouches down beside his padawan. "You see?" he breathes.

Obi-Wan starts out of his reverie. "Oh. Um…. Yes, Master."

The tall man's eyes narrow, as his student casts a guilty look at the finished meditation, eyes flitting uncomprehending between rock and rock, ripple and ripple. His hands tighten about the 'saber's hilt, then relax. He proffers the sacred weapon to its proper bearer.

"Thank you." Qui-Gon fastens the 'saber at his belt, wondering where he has gone wrong this time. "May I ask where your attention was wandering, since it manifestly was _not _ attending to the present moment?"

Flushing slightly, his apprentice fidgets where he sits, bouncing up and down upon his heels, ever so slightly. "That _kata_ you showed me day before last. Actually," he confesses, with only a hint of contrition in his tone.

A short exhalation. A Jedi knows when to admit defeat; likewise, a Jedi knows that victory and defeat are illusory, depending on one's point of view. "Very well," the senior of the pair decides. "I can see we shan't make any further progress until you've burned off a bit of excess energy."

Too naïve – as of yet- to see the double edged nature of this diagnosis, Obi-Wan bounces to his feet. "Yes, Master. We haven't done _anything_ all day." At the rebuffing silence this earns him, he adds," I mean, anything _in the dojo."_

"Hm." Qui-Gon gravely replaces his own footwear and favors the boy with a very wry smile. TA this phase in the proceedings, he has to admit to a certain degree of throttled nervous tension himself. A bit of exercise will do them both good. And they can return to the exercise shortly thereafter. "Then I suggest we adjourn to the nearest empty salle, posthaste."


	11. Chapter 11

**Tranquility**

* * *

**Scene 11**

The bell for late-meal rings during the time it takes them to traverse the distance cross-Temple to the junior level dojo – and yet, this ordinarily arresting sound does not garner so much as a sideways glance from Qui-Gon's enthusiastic padawan. There is one, and only one thing in the galaxy that takes such absolute precedence in the boy's world – and it is not philosophical debate, or cleanliness, or even the history of the Force-forsaken Teth dynasties. No. It is _'saberplay._

They arrive at an empty practice room one ahead of the other. Qui-Gon is certain his apprentice would have _scampered_ like a rabid foxill through the hushed concourses had he not been invisibly lelashed by his master's presence just behind him. The tall man's personal access code releases the door lock; Obi-Wan drops his cloak and tumbles over the threshold in a neat traveling cartwheel-backflip, landing in the center of the polished floor with an impish grin.

"I'm ready," he announces, superfluously.

Waving the illuminators to half-power, Qui-Gon cautiously treads to the tiered benches upon the far side and lays aside his own cloak.

"Since that kata so fascinates you," he tells his eager protégé, "I think this time would be best spent perfecting it."

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan apparently thinks grueling drills are a special kind of confectionary treat. He is a sprung coil , all compressed energy waiting to explode into motion. Stars' end… the Jedi master is sure that he was _never_ so hopelessly …frisky.

He has just the thing to _temper_ such immoderate exuberance. "Here," he says, solemnly extending his own 'saber hilt. "It's time you learned to perform it with a real blade."

The training weapons lay forgotten upon their carved halsa wood rack; Obi-Wan has eyes only for the burnished curve of Qui-Gon's own weapon. He accepts the offering gravely, bowing low. "Thank you, Master. I will do it proper honor, Force willing." Even behind the formal words, a spurt of raw ebullience is rocketing sky-high in the invisible plenum.

Qui-Gon resumes his station at the room's perimeter. "Good." He waits for the boy to adopt ready-stance, then adds, "My 'saber, is of course, accustomed to repeating the velocity one hundred times, at full speed. Anything less would certainly dishonor it."

This rivets his padawan's occasionally wandering attention, but does not daunt his indomitable spirit. "Yes, Master," he gulps, jaw firming into a determined line, tendrils of smoldering frustration suddenly extinguished, gathered back to center in a great distillation of power. The Force surges, pulses about them, scintillates about the young Jedi's aura, a bright corona of untried potential, of yearning.

"Begin."


	12. Chapter 12

**Tranquility**

* * *

**Scene 12**

Somewhere- nowhere – a new star blazes into life, birthed form the fecund infinity of the Force itself. Its life is a motion in stillness, a dance of radiant light burning emerald-green, vibrant, joyful, about its white center. It shines, a lantern set amid nameless heaven, gracious and beckoning, burning with the vitality of early youth, waxing stronger, brighter, more sure as it unfurls into gorgeous motion.

The star is a storm without end, a sphere of fire scribed perpetually round a hidden sanctuary, its liquid flame veiling and revealing, a thousand fold cherubic eyes, thousand fold seraphic wings, winged flames, wings _of_ flame, blazing light kindling in adoration, in exultation, in submission, light unto Light, life unto Life.

It is _mesmerizing _ to behold – even when the epiphany slows, and slows again, gross matter making felt its demands, the ache of muscle, the hammering of blood in veins. Qui-Gon watches entranced until the dance wavers upon the cusp of its fortieth repetition, the star descending to earth once morein the humble form of his panting, trembling apprentice. Obi-Wan catches his eye, then _reaches _into the Force, augmenting his depleted strength with borrowed radiance. It carries him further, into the forty-eigth cycle. And then sheer obstinate willfulness wrings out of him another, and a final repetition.

He stands, exhausted, the 'saber thrumming in his hand. The blade is nearly as long as he is high, making the _kata_ all the more difficult. He looks to Qui-Gon, a mute plea in every line of his body, in the steady heaving of his breaths, in the unquenched star-fire reflected in his eyes.

"A short rest," the Jedi master says, granting dispensation.

The 'saber blade snaps back into its hilt with a decisive hiss; the boy sinks to the floor where he stands, a lotus flower upon an unruffled pond. He folds his legs up beneath him, closes his eyes, and breathes out.

And then, opening like a bloom upon placid water, he simply _falls _into deep meditation – tipping over an impalpable brink with the unhurried majesty of a vast cataract, with the delicacy of dew settling upon gossamer web – and is caught utterly out of time. The moment spins out into a sempiternal now, into peace. And Qui-Gon smiles very wryly at his own foolishness.

Does not a Jedi know this, too? There is no _try._ And he has been vainly _trying_ all day to teach what cannot be taught.

When twenty minutes and more have passed, he dares to disturb his padawan's trance, the faintest ripple in the Force breaking the spell and bringing the boy back to place and identity – albeit with a soft hiccup.

He looks up, disoriented. "Master?"

"That was well done," the tall man informs him, gently. He holds out a hand and raises the young Jedi to his feet,

Obi-Wan blinks, and hiccups again. "Oh….._Oh._ Was that… was it long enough?"

"What do you think?"

A thoughtful pause. "I … don't - that is, it doesn't matter, does it?"

The tall man gathers their cloaks and makes sure the boy shrugs into his. "No. Come along; you are overdue for some supper and some sleep, am I not right?"

Another hiccup and a yawn proclaim that he is, though foolish in some ways, still master enough to know what is what. He tugs his padawan's cowl forward, playfully, and leads the way out again.

They walk, side by side, hands tucked into opposite sleeves, in perfect mutual tranquility.


End file.
